


The Purity of Sir Galahad

by ProxyOne



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: #DrunkenKissesChallenge, Drinking Contest, Drunken Shenanigans, First Kiss, Hannibal Cre-Ate-ive, M/M, oblivious Galahad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7231666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProxyOne/pseuds/ProxyOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The company create a drinking challenge between Galahad and Tristan.  It goes about as well as can be expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Purity of Sir Galahad

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow this is my first Tristhad, and I have to give a very big thank you to Supastag for helping me work the kinks out of it.
> 
> Or into it, as the case may be.

They sat in the tavern of the small town they were camped beside, and Galahad decided, before the first drink was even poured, that this was ridiculous. Tristan, of course, had not said a word in argument when Bors and Gawain had started this whole ludicrous idea. He still wasn't entirely sure what had sparked it. He thought – and he had to think very hard, because he was already seeing double and things that were normally easy to recall were furiously evading his mind's grasp – that it _might_ have started with a comment on Galahad's pure body being unable to handle the same things that the rest of them could. Something like that, anyway, and then of course Tristan had to look at him with that insufferably smug look, and before Galahad knew it he had been roped into a drinking competition. With _Tristan._ Because of course it was Tristan, with his stupid hair, and those eyes that followed him everywhere, and the cutting remarks he refused to stop making.

And so now here he was, drunk enough to be in serious danger of falling off his seat but trying valiantly to prove that he was fine, while Tristan sat there as cool, collected, and as entirely inscrutable as ever.

“Your face is pink, and you seem to be having trouble focusing,” remarked Tristan as he lifted his cup for another drink. “You've slowed down a lot, too.”

Galahad merely scowled at him and lifted his own cup.

“I'm just as fine as you are,” he snapped (slurred, if he was honest, but he refused to admit to that just yet), lifting his cup and missing his mouth entirely. The beer slopped down his front and the roar of laughter that followed did nothing but infuriate him further. Even Lancelot and Arthur were doubled over, and he could feel his face burning.

It was all Tristan's fault. It might not have been his idea, and Galahad couldn't have explained exactly _why_ it was his fault, but it was and so Tristan was the one who bore the brunt of his furious glare.

“Now, now, Galahad,” said Bors, clapping Galahad so hard on the back he very nearly ended up sprawled across the floor, “it's not Tristan's fault you're about to lose.”

“I am not about to lose!” he exclaimed hotly.

“There is no shame in this defeat, Galahad. You will live to fight another day.”

Galahad slammed his cup down, getting unsteadily to his feet. He wanted to smack the smirk right off Tristan's face.

“That's it,” he said. “I challenge you to, to, to...” He swayed a little on his feet, blinking rapidly to clear his bleary eyes. Tristan just blinked back, face calm and steady, though at least the smirk had finally vanished.

“To a duel? A fight? A race, perhaps?” he said evenly, though his obvious amusement even through that placid expression did nothing for Galahad's mood. “No, not a race; you can barely stand up.”

That was it, as far as Galahad was concerned.

“Not only can I stand up, but I will beat you in a race around the camp!” he declared, slamming his now empty cup down on the table. The rest of the group cheered, a raucous sound interspersed with chants for whoever each person thought would win. Galahad was just gratified there were _some_ chanting his name, so he chose to ignore the fact there were far fewer than were chanting Tristan's. Tristan lifted his eyebrows in consideration, before nodding and standing.

“From here, out to the camp, around the perimeter, and back again?” he asked, far too confident for his own good. Galahad narrowed his eyes and nodded. He would beat Tristan, and prove once and for all that he was good enough for him.

_Them._ Good enough for _them._ This had nothing at all to do with Tristan specifically. It certainly had nothing to do with Galahad's overwhelming need to be _noticed_ by him.

Tristan just watched Galahad for a moment, his gaze level, before he nodded once in return, a muttered “fine” barely crossing his lips before he turned and vanished through the door. Galahad just stood and blinked before Gawain gave him a shove, shouting, “Go, Galahad! He'll be back before you even leave and then I'll lose this bet!”

Galahad came back to his senses and snarled, then ran out of the door. At least, it was his intention to run out the door; he was well aware he had failed when, his head spinning, he stumbled, hit the door frame, then sprawled on the dirt outside. Uproarious laughter followed him out and he gritted his teeth, swallowing down the humiliation before climbing back to his feet. He took a careful step, then a second, deep breaths of cool night air going some way to clearing his head. It worked enough to have him at least able to put one foot in front of the other with relative stability, and he followed Tristan's footprints as quickly as he was able.

So focused was he on the trail Tristan had left, however, that he didn't notice when the footsteps led away from the camp until he looked up, finding that rather than being outside the camp, he was instead surrounded by the small stand of trees that stood on the other side of the town. He spun around, his inebriated state now a true hindrance, more than the mere annoyance it had been. His head spun, and he was trying to get his bearings when a sudden weight burst from the bushes, pinning him to a tree.

“Tristan!” he exclaimed, as the scout's face materialised before him. “You nearly got a knife in your stomach!”

“And you could have ended up with an arrow through your neck,” answered Tristan, so close to Galahad that he could feel his breath ghosting across his skin. “You should know better than to stumble into the woods alone and drunk.”

Galahad found himself squeezing his eyes closed, all too aware of the way Tristan's body was pressed against his.

“How are you not drunk yourself?” he asked, trying in vain to change the subject to something that would have Tristan moving away. Not because he didn't like it; quite the opposite. He was afraid that with his inhibitions lowered, Tristan standing with his body so close to Galahad's own would result in Galahad doing something he really should not.

Like kiss him.

“What makes you think I'm not?” Tristan asked, his hands still caging Galahad's head in.

“Your movements, your speech. You're entirely unaffected by the drink.”

“I am as unaffected by the drink,” Tristan said, if anything leaning closer and _oh god_ _it was getting harder and harder to resist closing that distance_ , “as I am unaffected by you.”

Galahad froze, quite convinced he had just imagined that. Surely he was passed out drunk back in the small town's tavern, dreaming all of this. And he was just as sure that he was misinterpreting his own dream version of Tristan, because surely there was no way he would be interested in Galahad, drunk or otherwise. He must be letting Galahad know that he _knew_ , and was letting him down gently. It made Galahad irrationally angry; irrational both because it was Tristan being caring, and because it was just a _dream_ and why get angry at a dream?

Even still, he shoved Tristan away, letting his anger show.

“Fine,” he said. “You could have just pretended instead of doing … whatever it is that _this_ is!”

Tristan looked as confused as Galahad had ever seen him. He tilted his head as though by changing the angle he'd be able to see into Galahad's head, and Galahad wasn't entirely sure it couldn't happen.

“I can't help looking at you differently,” he blurted out, and curse Bors, curse Gawain, curse the whole company for filling him so full of beer that he couldn't keep his mouth closed even if he tried. “I'll try to stop, okay? Just don't do this. Don't try to let me down. Just pretend none of this ever happened, pretend you don't know anything.”

He leaned back against the tree, all fight leaving him. There was little doubt Tristan had gotten the message, as slurred as it was.

“You really believe me to be sober?” Tristan asked softly, and Galahad had to laugh that _that_ was all he had taken from his outburst.

“Aren't you?” he asked helplessly.

“Not at all,” Tristan said, stepping forward slowly. “I'm just better at disguising it than you are.”

He stepped forward again, trapping Galahad once again.

“It seems I've been successful at hiding more than just that,” he continued, and oh. _Oh._ Galahad was suddenly _very_ aware of what Tristan was saying. Their bodies were pressed together again, and this time Galahad truly paid attention. Rather than the softness that would normally be there, there was a hardness pressing against his hip, and his eyes widened as he realised what it was.

Without warning, Tristan pushed forward to close that remaining distance, his lips grazing against Galahad's for a moment, almost hesitantly. Galahad froze for the smallest of moments, then pushed back fiercely, his mouth opening up to allow Tristan's tongue to lick inside him. The initial hesitation was lost once Galahad reciprocated, and within seconds they were tangled together, hands pushing through each other's hair as they met in a clash of lips and teeth and tongues. It was messy and sloppy and unutterably _perfect._

They were finally forced to part for air, and Galahad couldn't help himself. He began laughing, partly through joy, and partly through sheer dumbfoundedness.

“You shine so brightly when you're angry,” Tristan said, contentedly pressing soft kisses to the side of Galahad's neck. “How could I resist goading you into coming out here alone with me?”

Galahad let his laughter ring out at that. He had no idea what tomorrow would hold, but for now he would enjoy what he – what _they_ – had.

 


End file.
